


Artist at Large

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, M/M, Mycroft the Artist, Offering a Helping Hand, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 03:59:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18792541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: A little something for the amazingBrynTWedge'sbirthday!  It's a small peek back into the lives of artist Mycroft and policeman Greg from theArtist in Residenceuniverse.  Here, Greg hopes to get Mycroft's help with an issue that his lover is especially suited to understand - a talented artist who needs a helping hand to find a better path in life.





	Artist at Large

      “Well?”

Mycroft stared at the side of the abandoned warehouse, which was covered with an enormous spray-painted image of cockroaches in bespoke suits pointing aerosol cans at naked, running humans who looked suspiciously like a slate of current, particularly odious politicians, surmounted by a caption that read ‘Save the Country!  Vote Cockroach Not Conservative!’ and wondered if this was some sort of joke to celebrate the fact it was Wednesday.  His lover was nothing if not a man suffused with the spirit of whimsy.

      “Well what?”

      “Is it good?”

      “Gregory, you know how I dislike answering that question.”

      “Yeah, I do, but is it good?  Yes, I know you’ve told me that ‘good’ isn’t a valid descriptor for works of art beyond a narrowly-applied question concerning an artist’s use of a certain technique to achieve a specific effect and, even then, it’s still debatable if you can say good or not, but… your instincts, your opinion only… is it _good_?”

Mycroft sighed loudly and looked again at the work, this time with an eye for more than the political commentary.  He and his lover had been together for five years now and Gregory knew well that this particular question was one that slithered directly under skin to irritate like bee venom, so if he _was_ asking, there had to be a reason other than simple curiosity.

      “The use of color is… interesting.  Not what I would have chosen for such a message, but that, perhaps, is why it feels provocative.”

      “Provocative… is that good?”

      “I am purchasing for you a thesaurus.”

      “Ok, but… back to the goodness or lack thereof.”

      “Very well.  The piece is bold, intentionally so, which can be a failing if the piece more demonstrates the artist’s ego, rather than their message, but that is not the case here.  There is a clear point of view that is delivered by the… it must be difficult to achieve such precision of line with paint sprayed on such a rough canvas, so there is skill here that has been well-utilized to underscore the meaning of the piece.  Which is not entirely straightforward.”

      “What?  I thought it was pretty fucking clear.  Vote out the bastards.”

      “That is a portion of it, true.  However, it is also indicting of the other political parties, since none are presented as a positive, alternative choice.  Consider, also, the rather cliched notion that cockroaches would survive a nuclear disaster that would eliminate the human species.  One could say this piece was evoking a subtler point of view that putting the eventual rulers of this planet in charge now is simply an efficient step towards the inevitable.”

      “Oh.  Yeah, I didn’t get any of that at all.”

      “And you need not, for that could, in its entirety, be claptrap.  However, it _did_ enter my mind, which…”

      “One could argue is a major function of art – to prompt emotions and ideas.”

      “Perfectly stated, Gregory.”

Greg rolled his eyes, but smiled shyly as he always did when Mycroft paid him a compliment.  Compliments from geniuses, even one he was shagging on a wonderfully-frequent basis, were always something to cherish.

      “Thanks!  I’ll take as my reward your verdict, Professor Holmes – is it good?”

      “Oh, for pity’s sake!  Very well… for this avenue of expression, it is an effective piece.”

      “Don’t think I didn’t notice that the word ‘good’ wasn’t in there anywhere.  Ok, let’s try this…”

That Greg actually looked around first before motioning him around the corner of the large structure gave Mycroft pause, but his love _was_ a Detective Sergeant, so would not likely lead him into danger.  Of course, danger was a highly unpredictable thing, at times…

      “Gregory, what on Earth…”

He was picking a lock.  That obliterated the integrity of his police oath!  Though, that oath was arguably obliterated this morning when he accepted a free coffee from the shop around the corner from their flat after having a word with a youth who thought nicking a bag of crisps while the shopkeeper was occupied _with_ the policeman ordering the coffee in question was an act of sheer criminal brilliance.  Lockpicking, however, did seem higher on the scale of corruption than courteously accepting a coffee for performing a kindly act.  The weed of coffee crime had certain born bitter fruit and in very short order…

      “Shhhh… you didn’t see this and don’t remember any of it.”

      “Are you well?”

      “Yeah, it’s just…  ok, got it.  Come in and look, but don’t touch.”

Mycroft hesitated a moment, since being arrested for trespassing was not an activity he had planned for the day, but since Greg had already gone inside, he decided standing _outside_ could be construed by the constabulary as being a look out and would see him clapped in irons regardless, so began creeping slowly after his lover, looking around what must  have been an office space for the business.  Now, however…

      “I don’t want him to know we were here, but… have a look at these and tell me what you think.”

Paintings.  There were paintings throughout the space, most were completed, as much as any work could be said to be completed, but others clearly were in early stages of progress.  A quick study of the space showed signs of recent or current habitation, so the artist was active and these were not simply left behind and forgotten. What was _not_ evident was paint.  There was no storage space in evidence, so any materials should be easily visible, but nothing could be seen besides a few older brushes and other tools.  No paint of any form.

      “The artist stopped work on these because he could no longer purchase the necessary materials.”

      “Probably.  It would explain… look, love.  I’m not having you on with some silly joke.  If these aren’t anything remarkable just say so and I’ll find another idea, but…”

      “Gregory, what is this about?  You are being very cryptic.”

      “Yeah, but… oddly, I’m trying not to pressure or influence you.  I want your honest opinion, unaffected by… well, by anything else.”

Narrowing his eyes, Mycroft felt a twinge of concern that his partner wouldn’t even _meet_ his narrowed eyes, but pushed that back to try and accommodate the request.  Slowly moving around the small room, Mycroft took in each painting in turn, running his eyes across canvas after canvas, letting himself respond to each piece fully.

      “Well?”

      “The artist would benefit from instruction in certain techniques which are not demonstrated with great success.”

      “That’s not good.”

      “That is simply a statement that there exists room for improvement on a technical level.  Such could be said for any artist for any medium.  Also, there are two canvases that… I suspect they represent experiments gone terribly wrong.”

      “That’s worse.”

      “Not necessarily.  Creatively, it is good to take risks even if only to experience how one feels and performs while stepping outside of one’s standard boundaries.  Much can be learned from such experiences and they act as a source of growth.  At times, the experiment might fail because the inspiration behind it simply isn’t ready to find expression through your hands, regardless of the technique you employ to give it life.”

      “Ok… so what does that all mean?”

Looking again and wishing he could move a few paintings that partially obscured others behind them, Mycroft opened his senses and let the whole tableau occupy his consciousness until he felt he could offer what Greg was seeking.

      “It means this individual has talent and is willing to push his boundaries to see it realized to its fullest.”

      “So… they’re good?”

      “Yes, Gregory.  To my eye, they are good.  That means nothing of practical use, of course, for the art world as a whole is a foul and fickle thing, and they may never reach an audience that would appreciate their perspective, but I am finding myself most engaged by these pieces.  Now, will you kindly reveal the basis of this mystery?”

      “Yeah.  It’s like this, the lad who did that wall also did these.”

      “I suspected as much.  Go on.”

      “The police have run him in a few times for unlawful decorating of property without the owner’s explicit permission…”

      “Vandalizing private property.”

      “If you want to pick nits about laws and stuff, then fine, it’s vandalism.”

      “Is that not your actual job, my dear?  Laws and stuff.”

      “Yes, but… sometimes you have to look at the bigger picture.  Anyway, there’s a time or two I suspect they dragged him in because he looked like he needed a good meal and warm place to sleep.  This is a rough area and the constables do a fine job of looking out for the people here, even the ones who don’t have a proper address.  I know a lot of them from my own constable days and… one of them got in touch with me when they brought him in last night.  This time, though, it wasn’t for vandalism…”

Greg’s expression said everything Mycroft needed to know to feel his heart sink to his feet.

      “He was selling himself.”

      “Yeah.  Dimmock thought maybe I could talk to you about some art job or something.  Get the lad off the streets and with a few quid in his pocket.  He… he doesn’t know about the _other_ reason why you might be understanding of the situation, though.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and felt a familiar wash of darkness run through him, like a cold shadow passing over his grave.  Yes, he understood this situation.  Understood it far, far too well.

      “Oh, Gregory… what a tragic thing this is.”

      “I agree, which is why… I’m not asking you to move mountains and I know very well that he might not accept help at all, because some people just won’t for their own reasons, but I thought maybe we could talk to him, get a feel for who he is and if you know anyone who might have a job or something in the art world, put in a good word for him.  Or see if a couple of his pieces could sell to give the lad some money and a bit of exposure.  Maybe we can’t do anything, but…”

      “But we must try.  We _must_ , Gregory.”

For Mycroft could not bear the thought of someone walking his former path in life.  Admittedly, it had led to an indescribably wonderful place, but only because of the love and support of the man at his side.  Without his Gregory’s steadfast confidence and encouragement, getting the help he needed, the therapy and time to heal his wounds… physical, psychological and emotional… may never have occurred.  There was a high probability that, left to his own devices, he would still be doing the same as this poor young man - living in poverty, selling himself for food and supplies to continue with his art, the passion of his life since childhood.

      “Then we will.  No matter what you said about his work, I was going to see if I could find a way to help him, but it’s always easier to do that if you can connect them with a situation they’re interested in and have a talent for so they’re more likely to stay with it.  I thought if his work genuinely was good, then you’d have more options for giving him a hand and there’d be more hope that bit of help would lead to something that might earn him a living.”

Taking another look around at the paintings, Mycroft committed himself to taking action.  There _were_ options available for someone with this talent.  It was still untrained, but that was easily rectified and he knew individuals supremely adept at polishing raw talent in such a way the original brilliance gleamed brighter and was not lost under a layer of lessons and things done ‘the proper way.’  And, if there was anyone better suited to finding outlets for this work to be shown, for the artist to meet people who could offer, at minimum, simple employment or, in time, a degree of advocacy for an exhibition of his work, then _this_ artist had never met them.  He began his own voyage into the art community through making some very wealthy art collectors even wealthier and they still hung on his opinion as if it was the holy word of the gods.  Yes, this was a challenge he would take on and gladly.  One matter to settle, though…

      “Gregory, would you have told me of his situation if I had said his work showed little talent?”

      “Honestly… I don’t know.  I debated involving you at all, truth be told, because I didn’t want to cause you any hurt, bring back old, bad memories.”

Mycroft ran a hand along Greg’s cheek and relished the feel of warm skin and unshaved stubble beneath his fingers.

      “They are always with me, Gregory.  The hurt, the memories… they are part of me and that shall not change.  But, I have learned and am still learning to use them to my advantage.  To let them inspire me artistically, act as a source of strength, for they have not defeated me, though greatly they tried.  The pain is not an agony, the memories do not debilitate… it all sits in the corners of my mind, heart and soul like statues in a museum.  I can look at them when I choose, take from them what I wish but, although I cannot banish them, they cannot reach out for me.  They cannot scream or strike.  A spent bullet for which the casing sits empty, a memento that can cause no further harm.  They do not live, they only… exist.  And that is a blessing beyond compare.”

Kissing Greg softly, Mycroft marveled at how much he loved the man his lips were worshipping.  He had believed for so very, very long that he would go to his grave having loved only one person in his life and that was his brother, Sherlock.  For someone who hated to find out that he was wrong about anything, for this _one_ thing, he could not, not in a million years, be happier to know he was as wrong as wrong could be.

      “You never fail to amaze me, Mycroft.”

      “Given my staggering attractiveness and incomparable talent, that is to be expected.”

      “You’re right!  Want to go amaze some stupid young punk with your brilliance and see if his skinny arse might want to think about turning his life around?”

      “I do.  I… I am grateful for this chance, Gregory.  I was granted a great gift, one which allowed me to build a life that brings me both joy and pride and I would, if possible, pass that gift to new hands so it can continue its work.”

      “Then let’s get started!  He’s at the local station, so it’s only a short walk away.  They would have released him by now, but I said I’d stop in today, regardless, for a chat to start getting to know him.  Maybe see him sorted with a spot of lunch and with the names of a few people who work with the local homeless population.  Now, we have some other things to talk about, most of which I won’t understand since it’ll be all artsy and cultured, so I’ll quietly eat my chips and let the experts do all the talking.”

And, hopefully, give his artist and this new one time to get a sense of each other so… who knew?  Maybe Mycroft could help with those technical things that needed improving.  Or introduce him to some of the gallery owners.  Dimmock said he thought the boy had talent but wanted an expert eye to have a look, just to be certain.  Policing was about a lot of things and one of them was service.  You helped those in need when you could.  Sometimes all it took to make a difference was a phone call to put the right bug in the right ear.  The best coppers didn’t hesitate to toss the necessary bugs and were very effective at lobbing them into eager ears…  

      “Gregory Lestrade, you are highly conversant in the area of art and I am well aware of that fact.”

Greg made a rude noise, then nodded Mycroft over towards the door, which they both exited, with Greg being very certain to lock it behind them.

      “Nah, I don’t understand any of it so I can’t be bothered.  Unless, of course, it’s sexy pictures.  Those I _can_ bother with and happily so.”

      “I see.  So, unless I paint for you compositions of the most scorchingly-erotic nature, you shall ignore my artistic output?”

      “Yep.”

      “Oh well, nothing for it then.  Prepare to model as soon as we return home.”

Greg licked his lips in precisely the manner he knew made Mycroft’s blood boil, which always meant very happy things for the lips in question. 

      “Yes, sir.  I’ll try to be as sexy and scorching as I can for you, sir.”

      “Excellent.  And, if you are particularly pleasing, this one I’ll not put up for exhibit.”

      “I still can’t believe you sold naked me.”

      “A simple anatomical study, nothing more.  And It was only your torso, so none was the wiser as to who modeled for the piece.”

      “ _I_ knew.  My cock is in some other chap’s sitting room.”

      “Something for which I suspect he is thankful every single day.  As is his wife, most likely.”

      “My cock does have broad appeal, I must admit.  However, he lusts after one, and only one person, no matter whose sitting room he currently occupies.”

      “And shall that person benefit from said lust in the near future?”

      “How near do you want to make it?”

This lick of the lips was Variation B, which was more of a slow peek of the tongue between Greg’s lips, with a tiny flick given just before it was retracted, all while the tiniest of beckoning gleams lit in the warmest eyes Mycroft had ever known.

      “I… Gregory, are you suggesting something… tawdry?”

      “Just pushing you against that wall, taking out your cock and sucking you until you see stars.  That’s all.  Is that tawdry?”

      “Very.”

      “Interested?”

      “Very.”

      “Then let the tawdry begin…”


End file.
